


Dominance Structure

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:24:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in such a compromising and vulnerable position, even at the mercy of the Batter's hands, Zacharie always maintains control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dominance Structure

The batter's hands are usually so unyielding and so unflinching that it is an absolute  _delight_  to feel even the barest hint of restraint against your neck. The batter knows that he could kill you, knows that if he pressed down long enough and hard enough that he could snuff you out like a simple spectre but he  _doesn't._

He squeezes harder around your throat and despite the bloated thickness of scars ensconcing it the tips of his fingers still touch together at the nape of your neck. His hands are massive and you would love the chance to play with them more; to bend the fingers as far back as he'll let you and trace the puckered lines in his palm. 

Maybe another day. 

The underside of your mask has grown hot and wet with each desperate breath you try to take in against the increasing pressure on your neck. Your pants have become inconsolably tight and you're sweltering in your sweater but what is there to be done about it now when you're at the merciful pretense of the batter's control?

Bright spots of color appear in your vision, chasing each other across the face of the batter, the face breaking with the very smallest sheen of concentration. Concentration on  _not_  killing for once. And all because of you, all because you had  _told_  him to do so. 

It seems he is intrinsically doomed to be forever  _controlled_  by somebody, whether that be the player or an individual such as yourself. 

He's refused to touch you in those less sacral areas and you yourself could hardly muster up the strength to do it in his stead, which makes things more difficult but not  _entirely_ impossible. Nothing that couldn't be solved with your jerking hips and the desperation for some form of friction. 

Part of the way he holds you down and slowly chokes the life out of you is very  _pragmatic_ , using hands that killed and purified by rote and resolve simplified by routine. There's a measure of the fingers pressing into your skin that is nigh mechanical; the mindless desire of duty that fuels the puppet's progress. 

There's something else in those hands though, something he can sense which is backing the duty; propping it up like the cloudy scrap of plastic that it is. The slight shake as thumb press and massage into his windpipe, the quiver of flesh over the tremor of his own jugular. Something is there, something that pushes the puppet beyond the mere realm of archetype. Something that betrays the ideal of the stoic hero. 

It's utterly delightful and you hope the player is watching as his or her conventions fall apart. 

You would laugh if you had any breath left and smirk if you had any strength left. Instead you trembled and gasped and jolted your hips upward out of the sheer need of instinct. The mask exacerbates the suffocation closing in on you and you almost regret leaving it on but of course, that was one of the concessions that you allowed the batter. The batter would not touch you at all otherwise, not since you revealed to him exactly what had laid beneath all this time. 

You can hardly muster enough care to be insulted. Conventional attraction never would apply to rotting eyes nor slashed lips nor ropes of puffy scars crawling across cheeks like worms. A face is a face is a face, and in the end yours hadn't been horrendous enough to tear him away, so  _that_  you consider to be a victory. 

That is a victory and this, this right here and  _now_  is a victory. Even with hands closed around your neck and nothing but saliva and choking whimpers leaving your lips you have a grasp on the power of this scenario. 

The black of the shadows of the mask around your eyes begins to bleed into the blotted colors of the batter's face. Your already pinhole vision reduces to slivers eaten away by dying throes of your brain. Your heart screams in your chest and shakes your body. For a brief moment, you feel fear. It rushes through you from head to hips and bursts everything into light. 

He releases you suddenly enough for the air to hurt as it rushed back. Your back arches off the ground as you readily gulped it down. Your skull whacks back against the floor and you feel something split and wet the concrete. 

The euphoric rush ended as quickly as it had come. It had flushed out of you, taking with it the remaining strength in your hips and arms even as breath swept back into your body. You wheeze and open your eyes a sliver, sighting the batter's stone face through the bright holes. 

"Quite an interesting enterprise, wouldn't you say? My  _dear_  friend."

Your voice is hoarser than usual. Sitting up, you touch your throat.Amongst the spiderwebs of knotted scars against your windpipe you can feel the distinct depressions of fingers and the warmth on your Adam's apple from the calloused palm previously pressed there. The soreness around your neck forebodes the formation of bruises, and you couldn't be more pleased. 

You'd come in your pants, which is fine. Clothes are the other concession you'd allowed the batter to have. Bless his stringently conservative heart and his desire to stick to imagined vows long nullified by the inner-workings of the zones. It is both sweet and pitiable. 

He looks not nearly as pleased as you feel. He retrieves his fallen bat and uses the blunt end to push himself up to his feet. You don't do the same, and even when he towers over you you feel he is so very very small. 

"We're even." He's speaking in the same monotone as always. You're never surprised. 

_Even_ , yes you suppose so. You had done him a favor, cut prices for him in a time of need, and thus you had called for one in return. He is a man of duty and honor, providing the compensation did not incur too much shame on his part. And yes one  _would_  think that strangling a valued companion for the sake of sexual stimulation would be reaching beyond these boundaries but the batter had nevertheless agreed. Funny, indeed, how business and duty worked sometimes. 

Once you get to your feet you watch him retreat from your shop. He's having a difficult time walking as he stalks out of the room, letting the door swing closed behind him. Behind your mask, you quirk up an eyebrow and let out a trio of tinny chuckles. 

He could kill you  _so_  easily. But he doesn't, he's never even  _tried_  and that is absolutely delightful. 


End file.
